Wesley & Faith - Returning
by Tessaray
Summary: Wesley has broken Faith out of prison, and on the long drive back to LA, they reach an understanding. M/F


**WESLEY & FAITH**

**RETURNING**

**by Tessaray**

* * *

**Chapter One**

Wesley isn't interested in Faith's body, per se, as long as it's strong and fast enough to bring Angelus to heel. So he doesn't watch her in the rearview mirror as she changes into the clothes they've just lifted from some wrecked mall on the deserted outskirts of LA, where permanent midnight had eased toward florescent solar-eclipse green.

It was an area too close to the mayhem for humans, a tad too bright for their predators, but even inside that dead, cavernous place lit only by the red glow of emergency lights, there'd been too much stimulation after her years shut away in prison. As she'd hurried toward him, a bundle of clothes in her arms, he'd seen her jump, startled by the reflection of her own movements in a store window. She'd caught him frowning and tried to play it off.

"Freakin" ugly shoes in there."

He hadn't reacted, just scanned her. Is she in shape? She looked fit, taut. But thinner, a bit skittish. How is her stamina? It hadn't occurred to him to wonder whether she could physically pull this off. Or whether she still had the stomach for it.

###

So maybe it isn't the kindest thing to do, to stop the car and let her get ambushed by a clutch of vampires, but he does appreciate the visual of her feet disappearing through the passenger-side window.

He isn't in the greatest head space. He knows this and he knows he's being reckless, that inappropriate thoughts are distracting him. He's still proud of himself, for instance, for beheading Lilah earlier that day in only one stroke, glad his hand-eye coordination is intact despite serious sleep deprivation. He replays the moment—of lining up his blade with Angelus' fang marks, of swinging the ax—and grins unevenly as he shoves the car door open into an oncoming vampire.

Faith's battle grunts are background accompaniment to the whine in his head of the blade slicing the air, the clang as it connects with the wooden table, repeating like tinnitus, annoying as a persistent mosquito. He has to bear the sounds, though, until he finds the particular word that describes a human head hitting concrete. Not _thud_. It must be accurate, but also poetic—then the sounds will leave him in peace.

He thought they would fade on the long drive up to Stockton while he blared the radio and focused on developing his plan. But his plan was pretty straightforward—bust Faith out of jail—and the only stations he could get featured apocalyptic preachers or Death Metal. So he let himself drift.

The gush of Lilah's blood hadn't bothered him. After all his years with Angel, blood was pretty much just a quirky beverage choice, like Yoohoo or Vitasoy. And though he was used to the wild colors and textures of demon eviscera, there were some scents that would always threatened to trigger his gag reflex. He never imagined that Lilah's perfume would suddenly be one of them. But fortunately a strong will, an analytical mind and a decades-old ability to dissociate had kept any inconvenient reactions at bay.

"She's the one you want." Wesley addresses a vampire and jerks a thumb toward Faith.

"Slayer!" It cries and lopes off into the night like a big fangy baby.

Damn right, Wesley thinks. **Slayer.** That word inserts itself like a plug into the socket of his mind and banishes the chaos. Faith. She suddenly embodies it all, all over again. His training. His mission. His monumental failure.

Slayer.

Nearby, Faith is struggling to subdue a particularly feisty opponent. Wesley pulls a wooden stake from his pocket and tosses it to her. He imagines the creature tearing her throat out.

He smiles.

###

Back on the road and she's jumpy now, juiced. He remembers this tendency, and it's been amplified by years in the pen.

"So...you said you thought I could use a little release," she says. "I think I need a different kind now."

Wesley notes her uncharacteristic innuendo—she used to be more direct—but he ignores her and reviews. She moved well; fast, flexible, strong. No hesitation. Excellent reflexes. He's always felt the hair to be a problem; not that slayers should have buzz-cuts, but an opponent can grab long hair and immobilize—

Her hand is on his thigh.

"I'm sorry, Faith, no." Wesley strains to sound light, professional, but he has a visceral memory of her straddling him, lighting a homemade blowtorch in is face. She's been with him everyday since, images of torture lapping at him, part of a tide of experiences that has been slowly carving him out like a sea cave.

She removes her hand.

As they move deeper into the false night of the city, Faith descends into monologue. "Damn, I heard about this but... damn. Slow down, Wes, man, why don't we take some of them _out_?"

Block after block, vampires, singly and in small knots, strut around knowing they own the place. It's a direct affront to Slayer sensibilities and there is no part of Faith that's not desperate to show them who's boss.

Right now, that boss is Wesley.

"Come on, man! Make a dent? Show them a Slayer's in town? Look at the sac on these bloodsuckers!"

He ignores her and continues driving. At the sight of a crowd near a movie theater, Faith springs up like a dog spotting a squirrel. A particularly tall, dark vampire seems to be the center of attention. "Slow down!" she says, craning her neck. "Is that Angel?"

"Angelus. And it's not," Wesley says. He doesn't know how he knows, but he knows. Intuition, maybe. But on a more practical level, Angelus wouldn't waste time mingling with this rabble. There are plans to be made. More despair to inflict.

Lilah's blood had been vivid against the white of her neck. Angelus had dropped her to the floor so carelessly, then he was gone. Loose in the world. Because of Wesley. The way the light hit Lilah's open eyes, it had seemed to him that she'd winked. It would be just like her, to wink at him in death, like she knew something he didn't.

Wesley speeds up.

Misshapen creatures glance their way, and Wesley is surprised that they're keeping their distance. He had been charged repeatedly during his earlier drive out of the city, and he'd rammed his attackers gleefully, grateful for the distraction, felt the lift and fall as his tires rolled over their bodies, watched in the rearview as they popped up again like Weebles. One had the gall to flip him off and in an irrational flash of rage he'd circled back and chased the guy onto the sidewalk, drawing around the car a crowd of sneering vampires. One of them, hovering near his left headlight, had been a female, looking smart in grey Armani, her brunette hair falling gently around her warped face. She leaned over, pressing ample cleavage onto the hood, locked eyes with Wesley and smiled. Her lips were thick with blood.

For the first time since disposing of Lilah, Wesley had felt bile rise in his throat.

The ring of vampires had pressed in, some glancing fists off the shatter-proof glass of his windshield. He had guns—when didn't he have guns—and he could have inflicted a little pain on his way out, but this detour was an indulgence—he had places to be. He'd stared at the female creature's mouth and thought of Lilah's lipstick and how she never left a trace of it behind no matter how enthusiastically she sucked his cock. Some sort of sealing agent, Wesley supposed. He had floored the accelerator and mowed the female down, his tires screaming as a tight u-turn put him back on the road to Stockton.

Now, with Faith beside him, the vampires keep their distance like his car is sporting a yellow _Slayer On Board_ placard.

"Well, at least let's thin the goddamn herd," she grunts, making a grab for the wheel.

Wesley blocks her. "Not now," he says.

She settles back, but barely.

He doesn't expect to spot Angelus, but Wesley is alert, taking in all the things skulking in this unnatural night. It's good for him, he realizes, helps to turn down the volume if he catalogs what he's seeing, makes mental notes on morphology, dress and general bearing for some indeterminate evening when he can kick back with a few fingers of scotch and give his texts a leisurely perusal. But in truth, he doesn't expect to live that long.

He's distracted by Faith squirming in the seat next to him. She's giving off heat and an earthy scent. "It's bad, Wes," she says, pressing her thighs together. "I gotta either pound or get pounded. I won't be any good to you, man, if I don't get this out of my system."

_Oh, do shut up__,_ he thinks.

"I don't even expect you to be cool about it, man. Trust me, if there was anybody else…"

She's honest, at least. She says it's bad, but it can't be as bad as Slayer fists pummeling your crotch until you vomit blood. Wesley reminds himself that this shot at redemption was his idea and despite his loathing, she has a job to do.

He's surprised to hear himself say, conversationally, "Have you ever been fisted?"

She chokes out a laugh. He's shocked her and he grimaces at the mental high-five he gives himself; still the dork trying to impress the cool kids.

"Jesus Christ, Wes, how did you spend your summer vacation?"

He flashes on Justine, chained in his closet, decides not to share.

"That's all you're going to get, Faith. Take it or leave it. If you want it, give me access, because I'm not stopping the car."

He hears frustrated mutters, sighs and finally the thud of heavy shoes hitting the floorboards one by one, a zipper, a snap and the shuffle of denim. He's amazed at how easily she trusts him. Is it possible she thinks he's forgiven her? Or worse, could she have forgotten what she did to him? Either option is intolerable and he's suddenly itching to cause her pain.

She turns toward him in the seat, positions one foot on the dashboard, the other on the edge of his headrest. He notices peripherally the familiar color on her toenails and vivid memories of torment flare in his mind. His gut twists. She leans back against the door and lets her knees drop apart.

He pointedly ignores her, but is enveloped in her scent. "Make sure the door is locked, so you don't go flying out. Not that I wouldn't fucking laugh like hell at that."

His tone is like acid and he instantly regrets it. He was supposed to be professional, conceal his hatred for the greater good, and now she's onto him, glaring, snapping her legs closed, and as she slowly curls in on herself like a wounded animal, his memory registers the pose like a slap: He sees her, wet, sobbing in an alley, cradled in Angel's arms and begging for death. For that one instant, although battered and bleeding from hours of torture at her hands, Wesley had actually felt sorry for her. But it was only an instant.

He doesn't know how to make this right, doesn't know if he can. Doesn't know if he wants to. It's gratifying to see her hurt, cowering, because of him.

But she suddenly springs up, ready for battle. "So this is all bullshit," she says, fisting her hands. "You think you're gonna take me somewhere to, what let me get ripped apart by—,"

"No, this is real, Faith. Look around," he says. "If I wanted you dead, there are less elaborate ways to go about it."

"Well, you hate me. That's real."

He concentrates on the road. There's no point in lying to her, but this isn't the time to rehash the past.

"You're needed, Faith. I'm not going to hurt you."

She glares at him for a long time, then seems to accept what he says and unclenches her fists. "Like you could," she growls. She leans back and hugs her legs to her chest.

They're quiet as he drives, the tension thick, but the sounds in his head are nearly gone. Hatred, he's finding, does wonders for his mental clarity. Faith is tracing patterns on the passenger window, her jeans still in a heap on the floor.

_To be continued..._


End file.
